Reasons Enough to Surrender
by eirenical
Summary: Athelstan was quiescent beneath him, now, no longer fighting, but Bjorn could tell from the line of tension in his frame that he hadn't hadn't truly surrendered. Bjorn moved his leg over, slid it between the other man's thighs, nudged gently upwards, testing. Athelstan jerked in his hold, once again began trying to throw him off. Bjorn just smiled and tightened his grip. Dub!con.


**Fandom:** Vikings (TV)  
**Rating:** Mature  
**Warnings:** Dub!con  
**Relationships:** Athelstan/Bjorn (Vikings)  
**Characters:** Bjorn (Vikings), Athelstan (Vikings)  
**Additional Tags:** Dubious Consent, Light Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Submission, Service Submission, Adult Bjorn, Religious Guilt, Vow of Celibacy  
**Word Count:** 2804  
**  
Summary:**  
Athelstan was quiescent beneath him, now, no longer fighting, but Bjorn could tell from the line of tension in his frame that he hadn't exhausted himself just yet, hadn't truly surrendered. Bjorn moved his leg over, slid it between the other man's thighs, nudged gently upwards, testing. Athelstan jerked in his hold, once again began trying to throw him off. Bjorn just smiled and tightened his grip.

* * *

**Reasons Enough to Surrender**  
_by Renee-chan_

"Why... why are you doing this?"

Bjorn smiled, gripped Athelstan's wrists tighter to force them higher up his back, laughed when he felt the other man wince beneath him, "Because I want to, priest. Because you want me to. Are these not reasons enough?" He ground himself down against Athelstan's backside, laughed again when the other man shuddered. Moments later, Athelstan tried to buck him off, to regain some sort of control over the situation, but Bjorn wasn't going to let him have it - not now, not ever, again. He trapped the priest below him, his weight easily keeping the other man contained. When Athelstan's struggles eventually ceased, Bjorn freed up one hand to pat his hip, asked, "Are you finished, now?"

As he'd expected, that mocking question brought on a fresh round of struggling, of wriggling to get free. Bjorn would never admit it, but he thought he might like this part the best - the feel of the other man's struggles growing weaker... and weaker... and weaker... until they ceased, leaving the priest quivering and panting under his hands... until he surrendered. And that moment of surrender was exquisite - the moment when Athelstan stopped fighting him and gave in to what they both wanted, what they both needed. The priest didn't know any other way - couldn't admit it, even to himself, how much he wanted this. Bjorn still heard him sometimes, deep in the dark of the night, sobbing out his sorrow, his pleas for forgiveness, to his god... yet still he returned, over and over, for more of the same.

Athelstan was quiescent beneath him, now, no longer fighting, but Bjorn could tell from the line of tension in his frame that he hadn't exhausted himself just yet, hadn't truly surrendered. Bjorn moved his leg over, slid it between the other man's thighs, nudged gently upwards, testing. Athelstan jerked in his hold, once again began trying to throw him off. Bjorn just smiled and tightened his grip.

It was strange, Bjorn thought, the way the gods moved in his life. When his father had first brought the priest home, Bjorn had been curious, even a little repulsed, by his strangeness. That curiosity had soon turned to hate and Bjorn still blamed his father for that, for daring to put a slave above the eldest son of the house, no matter how young and unblooded the son had been, no matter what flowery words he'd used to pretty up that ugly truth. After all, if he had truly not considered Athelstan a slave, why had Ragnar not freed him by now? It had been years and the priest still wore a slave's collar about his neck - in word, if not in actual fact. But since Ragnar was Earl and his word was law... everyone knew the truth about the priest's status. No matter how Ragnar might favor him, all in the village knew that he was favored as one might a cherished dog... and no more.

Bjorn, on the other hand... when one hates a man, when one claims him as an enemy, even so young, one begins to understand him, to know him in ways that no one else can. And in those last formative years of Bjorn's youth, Bjorn had come to know Athelstan very well, indeed. The priest had been a more constant presence in his life than anyone save his sister, Gyda. And hatred eventually gave way to an amused sort of tolerance... and possessiveness.

He had watched his father with the priest for years, asking, cajoling, sometimes even bullying a little, to get what he wanted. It hadn't worked. Athelstan had refused him at every turn, had thrown his vow of celibacy around until Bjorn knew the words of that argument by heart. He would not give in, would not give Ragnar what was his by right... even though it was clear as day to see that the priest loved Bjorn's father just as Ragnar did him. Bjorn still wondered if it would have gone differently, if Athelstan _would_ have given in if he could have done so without compromising his own beliefs... if he'd not been given a choice. But Ragnar, for all he could be savage and violent and swift with his vengeance, he would not force this thing. And so Athelstan retained his choice and he chose to refuse.

His mother understood Athelstan better, Bjorn thought. She understood that asking and cajoling would not bring the priest to her bed, that he would have to be ordered there for him to agree, but in this she conceded to her husband. If not for that, she could have brought him to heel, could have had him any which way she wanted him, and he'd have thanked her for it. Bjorn had seen his mother at work and she was a force of nature when she she so chose to be - brave, strong, unbending... a true shield maiden... a Valkyrie. It was she who had given Bjorn his first lessons in fighting, she who had taught him how to navigate the politics of their new and powerful positions, she who had taught him how to rule. And it was she, all unknowing, who had given him the key to getting his priest exactly where he wanted him.

It had taken years - years of careful watching, of testing the boundaries of what the priest would allow himself to be ordered to do. And what Bjorn learned in those years was that what Athelstan would allow from no one else... he would take willingly from Bjorn. It started with small things - nullifying one of the priest's orders when they'd been left in his care, giving his sister ale when the priest had said she was too young. The priest had backed down from that challenge without even a token fight. So, Bjorn had built up his challenges - ordering the priest to stay and watch the death of the slave girl at Lord Haraldson's funeral. The priest had been getting uppity, forgetting his place, since diving into the waters to save Ragnar's life. He needed to be reminded that, as a slave, his life was not his own. It belonged to those who owned him. It belonged to Ragnar... and to Bjorn.

Athelstan had resisted that day, had fled the scene of the funeral before it was all over. Bjorn had let him have that small defiance, confident that his point had been made. He'd overheard the priest talking with his father often, after that, about his desire to be a free man - and his father would smile… and deny him every time. Bjorn always walked away from those overheard words smiling, secure in the knowledge that the priest understood his place.

Bjorn ordered Athelstan to drink. He drank.

Bjorn ordered Athelstan to polish his boots. He polished.

Bjorn ordered Athelstan to prepare him a meal. He cooked and served him a meal.

Then, one day, when Bjorn was sixteen and newly blooded in battle, he'd returned home from Athelstan's England, covered in the blood of his countrymen and weighed down with their appropriated loot... and he ordered Athelstan to touch him. Athelstan refused. Bjorn stepped closer, crowded the other man against the wall and pressed his hardened manhood against him. Athelstan had paled, then flushed... then fled. It was a start.

Gyda had cornered him that night, demanded to know what he'd done. It seemed she and Athelstan had a standing appointment for her to practice her English in the evenings, now, and he had not shown. And whenever anything goes wrong in a sister's life, who is she to blame but her brother? Bjorn had reassured her that he had done nothing and would fetch the priest for her if she so desired.

She had.

When Bjorn found him, Athelstan was sitting outside, a fur wrapped around him to ward off the evening chill. Bjorn leaned against the wall beside him and said, "My sister is very cross with you. It seems you've missed an appointment."

Athelstan made a scoffing noise at that, huddled a little deeper into his fur and said, "I doubt that very much. Gyda is never cross with me. For all she is strong like your mother, she is kind."

Bjorn laughed, "As always, you see straight to the heart of a matter, priest. She is more cross with me than she is with you." He leaned closer, breathed his next words into Athelstan's ear, "She saw us this afternoon, priest." Athelstan jerked forward, away from Bjorn's warm breath, but Bjorn caught him, hands gripping tightly at his shoulders to keep him flush up against him. He could feel the rapid beat of the other man's heart where they touched and gripped him tighter still, "And you ignored an order from me, priest. I won't forget that." He then released Athelstan and laughed as the priest fled him yet again.

Bjorn pushed the boundaries more and more after that day, ordered Athelstan to perform more and more personal tasks for him - lacing up his trousers, washing his back for him in the bath... anything that would bring his priest into close proximity, anything that would desensitize him to that intimacy of the body.

And it worked.

A year later, when Bjorn was seventeen, he ordered the priest to touch him, again - and he did. He immediately lifted his hand and, without hesitation or thought for the meaning behind the order, placed it on Bjorn's chest, right over his heart. And Bjorn smiled, proud and happy that he'd finally managed to bring this dog to heel. Only it hadn't been as simple as that. Athelstan had awoken to his meaning meer seconds later, had pulled back, mumbled something about something needing cleaning and fled Bjorn's presence. But, Bjorn had the trick of it, now, and wouldn't be denied for long.

The next time Bjorn cornered his priest, he was ready. When Athelstan bolted, Bjorn caught him, trapped him between the wall and his body, one leg forced between his, one hand trapping the priest's against his chest. And as Athelstan struggled against him, Bjorn softened his hold, stroked a gentle hand through the priest's hair and shushed him, "Easy, priest. Surely you know I would never hurt you."

A small whimper escaped the priest's throat as those worsds were murmured into the skin of his neck, but he nodded. Bjorn smiled, pressed a kiss into the soft skin beneath his mouth and said, "Good. Remember that," then let him go. Athelstan fled, then - but not as quickly and not without a backward glance. And when he thought Bjorn wasn't looking, he pressed a hand against that spot on his neck.

Their liaisons escalated rapidly after that night, Bjorn ordering more and more outrageous things and Athelstan complying... to a point. After a resistance. It took Bjorn nearly another whole year to understand that Athelstan _couldn't_ give in. He was too well entrenched in his religion, in his devotion to his Order. But, Bjorn had become more and more convinced that that was all that was stopping him. The look of pure relief in his eyes when Bjorn would order him into an act of physical intimacy, the naked need written all over his face when Bjorn forced him to obey...

And it all came down to this.

Athelstan gave one last, almost convulsive shudder beneath him, then stopped, limbs trembling, breath drawn in and out of his lungs in harsh pants. Bjorn just smiled, stroked a gentle hand down his priest's side until it came to rest in the hollow below his ribcage, "That's good, priest. That's good."

Throat working around a hard swallow, Athelstan buried his face into the pillow beneath him and let out a sobbing laugh. He shook his head, "You... this has to stop. Bjorn, it's wrong. I'm a monk. I took a vow of celibacy. And even if I hadn't... this... between two men... it's _wrong_. Surely you must see that."

In answer, Bjorn pulled a well-worn leather thong from his belt pouch and started gently but thoroughly binding Athelstan's wrists, listening smugly for the small moan that always came when the priest felt the slide of leather against his skin. And even now, amidst his protests, that moan betrayed him. His body then betrayed him further still, pressing back against Bjorn as he tightened the leather. Once he had both hands free, Bjorn rolled the priest onto his side and tipped his face up so he could look down into his eyes.

"Tell me you don't want this, priest. Tell me you don't want _me_. Tell me you could walk away from this, that you would return to a life of celibacy, never to feel the touch of another's hand on your body, again. Tell me these things... and I will let you go. I will not touch you, again."

Their gazes locked for a breath, two... three. The silence stretched on between them, a living thing pressing down on them, sucking the very light and sound from the room until all they could see was each other. The last of the tension left Athelstan's body and his head lolled to the side, a stricken, defeated expression on his face as he murmured, "...I cannot."

"Good." Bjorn slid his hands beneath Athelstan's shirt, touched flesh to flesh, eyes lighting with joy as his priest let out another low moan beneath him, "Because I was not at all certain I could keep that promise if you forced me to make it."

Athelstan still refused to look at him, kept his face turned away as Bjorn deftly undid the fastenings of his clothes, but the surrender in his body was real enough. The moans Bjorn felt vibrating under his lips as he pressed them to the other man's throat were real enough. The arching up into his touch as Bjorn let his hands wander beneath the priest's shirt was real enough, as well... as was the flesh he could feel hardening between the other man's thighs. And so, Bjorn took pity on him, did not force him to act of his own accord. Not tonight. Tonight he would give orders, would take that responsibility from his priest's shoulders so that once again, he could go to his god and beg forgiveness, could tell his god that he hadn't wanted it, that he'd been forced... when they both knew that that couldn't be farther from the truth.

So, Bjorn gave orders, demanded what he wanted, and Athelstan obeyed. But, by the time Bjorn was ready to lift one of the priest's legs over his shoulder and slide between his thighs, those orders were no longer necessary - were, in fact, being anticipated. Though he still kept his face turned away, Athelstan willingly - even eagerly - fitted his legs into place, even went so far as to wrap one leg around Bjorn's waist to pull him closer. That one action, and what it meant, pulsed through Bjorn like a siren call. The meer possibility - that one day, his priest might come to him of his own accord, might not feel the need to beg forgiveness of his god during the nights afterwards... might allow himself to feel what Bjorn felt when they were together... Bjorn found himself shaking with how much he wanted that. So, he was faster than he liked - rougher, too - but Athelstan took it, tossed his head back on the pillow, hands clenched where they were bound behind him, legs still tight around Bjorn as he rocked up to meet each plunging thrust.

It was over too quickly, a burst of light that faded and decayed before Bjorn could truly catch a glimpse of it. But after... oh, after. Once his wrists were unbound, Athelstan turned, curled himself into the heat of Bjorn's body, face pressed tightly into the crook of his neck. His hands were cold, Bjorn noted. He'd tied the bonds too tight, this time. As Athelstan tucked himelf more firmly against him, Bjorn cradled those hands in his, gently chafed some feeling back into them. And as his priest seemed entirely disinclined to move, then or after, Bjorn pulled the furs up over them both, tucked the other man more firmly against himself and fell into a deeper, more satisfied sleep than he'd known since he was a child.

By morning, the furs were undisturbed, Athelstan's form still tucked against Bjorn's beneath them. Bjorn pulled him close, smiled into the dark curls of his hair. Why had Athelstan stayed? Because he wanted to? Because Bjorn wanted him to? Maybe because hatred and love are like two sides of a single coin... and Bjorn hadn't hated his priest in a very long time. And that was reason enough, after all.


End file.
